Pay Any Price Page 2

  “No. He’s an ex-Marine from a high-security base in Japan. He’s only a kid. Says he’s going to tell them all he knows about our codes, our methods, the lot.”

  “What does a Marine know anyway? I thought they spent all their time stamping their boots on parade grounds and trying to bed the local girls.”

  “I’m afraid not, honey. He knows a lot that could be useful to our friends up the road.”

  “A funny attitude for an ex-Marine to take.”

  “Yes. And even odder in one way.”

  “What way?”

  “When he said his little piece it was almost as if he had been tutored by someone … seemed to be using words he had learned but didn’t really understand.”

  “What do you think the Russians will do with him?”

  “They’ll certainly suck out all that he can tell them, but I doubt if they’ll make a song and dance about him. They’ll probably be suspicious.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, like you said, it’s abnormal behaviour for an ex-Marine. When they want servicemen to spill the beans the KGB do it deliberately. Sex, money, whatever works. Volunteers, they don’t trust.”

  It was a good sized sitting-room in what was one of the older buildings in Minsk, and apartments had been bigger in those days. But despite its size it was crowded that day, the last day of April. Both children and adults were enjoying themselves, and the dining table was piled high with zakuski, caviar, salami, fish in aspic, and bowls of fresh fruit.

  Vanya Berlov rose unsteadily to his feet. “Valya, what is wrong with your cooking today? Things are always so tasty at your table but today they are bitter.”

  The other guests smiled and shouted “Gorko, gorko,” and looked meaningfully at the young groom and his bride. The old Russian custom was that all food and wine tasted bitter until they were sweetened by the newly married couple’s first kiss in public.

  The young girl blushed but eventually submitted to her groom kissing her full on the lips. From time to time someone would shout “Gorko” and the couple would kiss again.

  It was after midnight when the celebrations ended and the young couple, Alik and Marina, walked the few blocks to their new home, the young man’s small apartment. It was on the fourth floor and she was a well-built girl, but her new husband gallantly lifted her up and carried her up the stairs.

  While her husband was preparing for bed Marina looked at the marriage stamp in her passport and idly picked up her husband’s passport to look at his stamp. And with a shock she saw that his year of birth was 1939. That meant he was only twenty-one, and he had told her that he was twenty-four. She wondered how much of the rest of what he had told her was true. At least he hadn’t lied about his name. It was there in the passport: Lee Harvey Oswald.

  The two brothers sat side by side, directly opposite the hard-faced man and his legal advisers on the other side of the long table. They were both handsome men, the brothers; stylishly, but not ostentatiously dressed, their eyes intent on their adversary’s face. Jimmy Hoffa, boss of the Teamsters Union, despised and hated the two young men who relentlessly pressed their questions for the Senate committee investigating corruption in the unions.

  Hoffa’s bull-neck was thrust forward aggressively as he spoke.

  “The fact is this is a strike-breaking, union-busting Bill. In my opinion.”

  Hoffa leaned back in his chair, a defiant, self-satisfied smile on his face. The elder of the two brothers leaned forward towards the microphone in front of him, the TV and film lights emphasizing the white cuff of his shirt as his hand jabbed up and down to emphasize what he was saying.

  “Mr. Hoffa, the fact is that this is not a strike-breaking, union-busting Bill. You’re the best argument I know for it. Your testimony here this afternoon … your complete indifference this afternoon to the fact that numerous people who hold responsible positions in your union come before this committee and take the Fifth Amendment … because an honest answer might tend to incriminate them.”

  Hoffa sat there, his eyes angry, closing his thin mouth to hold back his violent temper as his lawyer whispered in his ear to keep quiet.

  Ten minutes later that session of the hearing was over, and as Hoffa walked with his hoodlums towards the big doors he said loudly, “That SOB. I’ll break his back that little sonofabitch.”

  And the next day the first question to Hoffa from the committee’s chief counsel, Robert Kennedy, was typical of the implacable determination of the two Kennedys to expose the Teamsters Union.

  Kennedy gestured towards Hoffa’s entourage. “While leaving the hearing after these people had testified regarding this matter, did you say, ‘That SOB—I’ll break his back?’ ”

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  “Say it to who?”

  “To anyone. Did you make that statement after these people testified before this committee?”

  “I never talked to either one of them after testifying.”

  Kennedy pressed on. “I’m not talking about ‘to them.’ Did you make that statement here in the hearing room after the testimony was finished?”

  “Not concerning him as far as I know of.”

  “Well, who did you make it about?”

  “I don’t know … I may have been discussing someone in a figure of speech.”

  “Well … whose back were you going to break, Mr. Hoffa?”

  “Figure of speech. I don’t know what I was talking about, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  To most of the onlookers it seemed a small incident, but in front of his henchmen it was yet another humiliation at the hands of the Kennedys. And in that moment he was determined to smash them both. He would fire the first shot that night.

  The man sitting opposite John F. Kennedy in the hotel room had been in the US Navy with the Senator. They hadn’t liked one another then, and neither of them had had any reason to change their opinions since. But the man was now wealthy, important, and an influential local figure in the Democratic Party. He was dressed formally in a dark blue business suit, white shirt and subdued tie. He looked amiably towards the Senator as they sipped their drinks.

  “I’m not asking you to go easy on them, JF. Just to …” He made a see-saw gesture with his well-manicured hand. “… how shall I say it. Keep a balance. A perspective.”

  The Senator smiled as he put his glass down on the table beside him.

  “You could have fooled me, Ray. I’d have said you were doing a pitch, asking for the committee to lay off your pal Hoffa.”

  “No way, old friend. The law has to take its course and all that jazz. But people are beginning to see it as a personal dogfight. The Kennedy brothers versus the Teamsters.”

  Kennedy smiled. “And people would be right. It is.”

  “But why, for God’s sake? We need their support. The party needs their votes.”

  “How many votes has Hoffa got?” Kennedy raised his eyebrows.

  “Who knows. But we all know we need them.”

  “James Hoffa has one vote, and as far as my campaign is concerned he can shove it.”

  The other man opened his mouth to speak but the Senator held up his hand to silence him.

  “The Senate subcommittee has been set up to investigate union corruption, and that’s exactly what it’s doing.” He wagged a monitory finger. “And that’s what it’s going to go on doing. They don’t command their members’ votes. Their members may be too scared to do anything but apparently accept what they’re told to do. But in the ballot booth they do what they choose.

  “You know as well as I do that the mob are running the Teamsters, not Hoffa. And they’re running the other big unions too. You’ve got union funds, huge amounts, being transferred into private bank accounts, gangsters acting as union officials. Murder. Torture, for anyone who complains or resists. What more do you want?”

  “But none of this can be proved, JF. None of it.”

  Kennedy smiled. “Don’t rely on
that, Ray. And tell your friends not to rely on it. We’ve got a lot of people working on it. Good people. Incorruptible.”

  “But why make it all so personal?”

  “It’s very personal for their victims.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The Senator winced and moved his back to make it more upright in the armchair.

  “Well, for instance, there was the union organizer from LA who went to San Diego to organize juke-box operators. He was told he would be killed if he didn’t stay out of San Diego. He went back again the next month. He was clubbed unconscious, and when he came to he was soaked in blood and had terrible stomach pains. He tried to drive himself back to Los Angeles but the pains were so bad he stopped at a hospital. He had an emergency operation and the surgeon removed a cucumber from his backside. A large cucumber. Sounds jokey if it isn’t you. When he got home he got an anonymous call saying that next time it would be a watermelon.”

  “You mentioned murder, Senator.”

  “I’ll give you just one. There was a little guy named Rubinstein. Lived in Chicago and was a runner for Al Capone. In 1939 Rubinstein was involved in the murder of a local union boss in Chicago; Rubinstein was the local union secretary. It was that murder that let the Mafia into the Teamsters.”

  “You know, Jack, if you go on too far you could bring down very powerful figures in the party. You must know who I mean.”

  “One of my senior investigators told me the details, Ray. I’ve given the appropriate instructions.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Very glad.”

  “Yes. I told my man to go back and build up the best case they can against those men.” He paused for a moment. “We have a rigid rule around the subcommittee, Ray. If they’re crooks, we don’t wound ’em, we kill ’em.”

  The man looked uncomfortable. Leaning forward as if he were going to speak, he hesitated and drew back. The Senator watched him, half-knowing what the man was going to say on behalf of the hoodlums who owned him.

  “Say your piece, Ray. It makes no difference to me. But you’ll be able to tell them that you delivered the message.”

  “Who told you about the message, Jack?”

  “Nobody. But I know how those bastards work. Give me the good news and then we can call it a day.”

  “They’ve declared war on you, Jack. You and Bobby. If you stand for President they’ll be against you all the way. They mean trouble. Real trouble.”

  Kennedy nodded. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let yourself out, Ray. Turn right for the elevator.”

  The band was playing a Latin-American version of “America, America” and the two men standing in the wings were watching the chorus line on the stage. The girls were all hand-picked for their good looks, their long legs and full bosoms. Their scanty costumes of silver sequins only emphasized what they were supposed to hide. The Tropicana Club in Havana was reckoned to be the biggest nightclub in the world.

  The bald-headed, tubby man said, “Who’s the chick second from this end, Santos?”

  “God knows. It’ll be Rosa, Maria or Anita. They’re all called that. Why? Do you want her?”

  “She’s a real doll, pal. A real doll.”

  “Do you want her, Jack, or don’t you? Just say for Christ’s sake.”

  “I guess the answer’s yes.”

  Santos Trafficante walked across to the stage-manager and spoke to him before coming back to his guest.

  “She doesn’t finish until one o’clock. Her name’s Maria. She’ll come to your room at the hotel about two.”

  “You’re a lucky man, Santos, with all these pretty girls.”

  Trafficante said irritably, “What they’ve got’s no different to what the broads in Miami or New York have got, my friend. My job here’s money not screwing.” He paused, “You got any idea how much I’m sending back to the States every month?”

  “I heard it was nearly fifty grand a month.”

  “Double it and you’ll be in the ball-park.”

  “Is Castro gonna make any difference?”

  Trafficante smiled a grim smile. “He’s been in Havana a couple of weeks now and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. OK, maybe he’ll stick us for more than Batista did, but they all want something. Whatever it is we’ll give it to ’em. I’d better get back to the office, Jack.”

  “I’ll come with you, pal.”

  There was a man sitting at Trafficante’s big desk. A young man in torn and stained battle camouflage. His hand was resting on a Kalashnikov lying on the desk top. As Trafficante stood in the open doorway the soldier looked at a photograph lying on the desk in front of him. He smiled at the American.

  “Is time to go, Señor Trafficante.”

  “It’s time for you to get out of my goddamn chair, little boy.” He reached for the phone and went to dial a number before he realized there was no dialling tone. He slowly replaced the receiver and looked at the soldier.

  “What’s going on, soldier boy?”

  “You’re under arrest, Mr. Trafficante.”

  “Who says so?”

  “Fidel says so. Who’s your friend?” The soldier nodded towards the bald man.

  “I’ve no idea. He’s not a friend. He’s just a customer who I brought back for a drink.”

  “What’s your name, señor?”

  “Jack Rubinstein. I’m an American citizen.”

  “OK. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Hilton.”

  “OK. You go back to Hilton. We see if you OK.”

  The bald man backed out of the door looking for some indication of what he should do from Trafficante. But Trafficante was busy taking a thick roll of dollars from his inside pocket as Rubinstein closed the door and headed for the exit doors. It was eleven-thirty and the stage was strangely silent and empty. A few stragglers were still queueing to get out of the club. A dozen scruffy-looking soldiers were wandering around aimlessly, trying to look as if they knew what they were doing.

  Outside there was an armoured car and half a dozen battered jeeps, with weary-looking soldiers standing around, smoking cigarettes, their free hands touching the guns in their canvas holsters as if to check that they were still there. They shook their fists at him as he walked by.

  The next time that Debbie met the piano-playing army captain was in Honolulu. She had given four performances that day and as she walked off the stage in the evening she knew there was something wrong. Her throat felt as if it were on fire, and there was a bitter taste on her tongue. She found swallowing painful. Her escort insisted on sending for the medical officer. And when the doctor came to her quarters she couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t even realized that her piano-playing captain was an army doctor.

  He checked her throat and then switched off the torch putting his hand gently on hers.

  “Did it come on suddenly?”

  “My throat felt a bit sore yesterday. Like I might be starting a cold. The real pain only started when I was playing my last number tonight.”

  “And the bitter taste?”

  “I didn’t notice that until I was walking off-stage.”

  “Well, my sweet Debbie, you’ve got an abscess at the back of your throat. A fair-sized one. And it’s burst. The bitter taste is the pus. I’m going to give you some antibiotics. A shot in your arm right now, and tablets for ten days. You’ve got to stay in bed for at least two days, then we’ll see how you’re doing. If the pus doesn’t come out I might have to help it on its way. But I’m hoping the penicillin will be enough.”

  “But I’ve got engagements I’ve got to keep.”

  “Forget them, honey. You couldn’t sing anyway, and if you don’t stay in bed you’ll have a temperature like a furnace and your throat won’t heal at all.”

  He bent down, opening his black case, checking through the phials until he found what he wanted. He turned to look at her.

  “Go and get into your night-things and into bed. The injection will ma
ke you sleepy.”

  When she was out of the room he filled the syringe from the phial. The label on the phial said “MKULTRA” in capitals, handwritten in black ink. He knew that it was too good an opportunity to miss. They could work out how to use her later.

  As he swabbed her arm and pressed up the pale blue vein he said, “It’ll only be a slight prick.” And as he was saying it he slid the needle smoothly into her arm and pressed the plunger as he smiled at her.

  “Are you feeling sleepy yet?”

  Her eyes were closed and she nodded her head. When he could see from her breathing that she was almost asleep he said softly, “Can you hear me, Debbie?”

  She sighed and her lips said “yes” without speaking.

  “I’m going to count to ten, Debbie, and you’re going to go deep asleep. One, two … nice and relaxed … three, four … deeper and deeper … five, six … seven, eight … soft and warm … nine … ten. Now you’re asleep. Can you still hear me?”

  She nodded.

  “When you wake up you won’t remember anything. Just that you were asleep. Is Debbie Shaw your real name?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me your real name.”

  “Debbie Rawlins.”

  “Is Debbie short for Deborah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever been into drugs? Heroin or cocaine or LSD?”

  “No.”

  “What about grass, marijuana?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had drugs for illnesses?”

  “No.”

  “Do you trust me, Debbie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you do anything I tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you let me have sex with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your favourite girl’s name?”

  “Nancy.”

  “When I talk to you like this your name is Nancy. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Nancy.”

  “Nancy Rawlins.”

  “Yes. Nancy Rawlins.”

  “You’ll never use that name unless I tell you to. And you never talk about what we’re saying to each other now.”

  “OK.”